there is no gelt in this writing lark no real profit no
final reward just a hunger an
insatiable need to press the keys and
play the notes that fill the page all writing is futile I can’t
express how I feel not in so many words I’d like to
take my pain roll it into a ball and stuff it in your mouth so you’d be mute like me your seams leaking blotting your copy book with a silent crimson scream
but those are just words I don’t mind you in the least you brought me more pleasure than a thousand dead poets
“The only good poet is a dead poet.”
isn’t that what you said? imposters pout and posture all across the page with borrowed icons and stolen voices but genius lays face down in the gutter death is the final measure of dedication to the craft but not for me darlin’ I don’t believe in tragedy and I want to score in this life not the next I don’t intend to exit prematurely but after a long while when I’ve perfected my papers and catalogued my women in alphabetical order or numerical significance according to rank and ability
I like my words jagged as crocodile teeth dirty as a whore’s tongue and rabid as the breath of infected dogs I don’t require prettifying or disinfecting keep those nice words for old ladies to sprinkle on their cakes I want you to feel me in you I have no time for ambiguity or tickling ears I want to ram my words right down your throat one day I’ll find the beat that forces the rhythm of my concoction into your heart like a fucking dagger
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